Roman boy, p.6
Roman Boy, page 6
Titus was standing in front of them, along with half a dozen hard-faced men, all in full lorica segmentata and red cloaks. They wore shiny helmets, with tall crests made of white horsehair or bird feathers dyed red or black, and each held a slim wooden staff the length of a man’s arm. Titus glanced at Lucius, who hurried over to join the others, taking a place right at the end of the first row.
“Good, that’s everyone, so let’s get started,” said Titus, his voice strong and clear in the crisp, cold air. “My name is Titus Pompeianus Fronto, but you must always call me Optio Titus, because that’s what I am, an Optio, as are my friends here. You will discover – if you are lucky enough to survive the next few hours – that we Optios are very important people. We’ll be putting you through your paces today…”
They began with an inspection. Titus and the other Optios walked along both lines of recruits, examining them. Each was asked for his name, age and place of birth, an Optio writing their answers on a wax tablet. Lucius gave his new name again, said he was nineteen and that he had been born in Rome. Several of the recruits handed in letters of recommendation at the same time.
Next they were marched out of the courtyard and through the fort to the eastern gate. They emerged and headed to a nearby building, Londinium’s Amphitheatre, a copy of the one in Rome but on a much smaller scale. Valerius had told Lucius that beast shows and gladiator fights were only put on in the summer, and that the Army used it for training at other times of the year. Titus led the recruits through an archway, finally bringing them to a halt in the centre of the sandy arena.
“Strip to the waist, everybody,” said Titus. “Time you got used to the cold.”
“Does that mean the Optios too, Optio Titus?” said the recruit standing next to Lucius. He was a little taller than Lucius, with olive skin and curly dark hair. Judging by his big grin, he thought he was being funny. Some of the others sniggered.
“Be quiet!” yelled one of the Optios, a powerful-looking man with a square jaw, his dark brown eyes just visible beneath his helmet rim. He strode over to confront the young man who had spoken, getting right into his face until their noses were almost touching. “So, we have a joker,” murmured the Optio, his voice full of menace. “Trust me, boy, you won’t be laughing much when we’ve finished with you.”
After that, there were no more comments from the recruits, funny or otherwise. They did as they were told, and stood shivering, naked from the waist up. Lucius hugged himself, hopping from foot to foot, marvelling at how different they all were – pale-skinned, dark-skinned, muscular, soft-looking. Nobody else was wearing a bulla, so he quickly took his off and slipped it into a pocket of his leggings.
“As I was saying before I was interrupted, we need to find out how fit you are,” Titus said when they were ready. “You can start with ten laps of the arena.”
The recruits ran round the outside of the arena while the Optios stood in the centre, watching them. Lucius was glad to be moving, and soon began to warm up, sweat prickling on his skin, his breath misting in the air. By the tenth lap he was breathing heavily, his chest hurting, and he was glad it was over. But Titus just yelled at them to keep running, to do another ten laps, then another…
In the end Lucius lost count of how many laps Titus made them run. Some of the recruits dropped out, collapsing onto the sand, and a couple were violently sick.
There was more to come, though. Titus made them sprint across the arena dozens of times, then take turns to carry each other on their backs until Lucius’s whole body was aching and it felt as if his legs were made of stone. Yet he kept going, pushing through the agony and fatigue.
“We’ve seen enough,” said Titus at last. “Get dressed and wait here.”
“Just hold on a moment, Titus,” said the Optio with the square jaw. “I don’t think we’ve finished yet – we should really give these lads a proper test of courage.”
Lucius didn’t like the sound of that, and he could tell by their faces that the rest of the recruits felt the same. Titus looked at the other Optios, and they shrugged.
“Very well, Quintus,” said Titus, with a deep sigh. “If it will make you happy, then go ahead. Just make sure you don’t maim or kill any of them, all right?”
“I’ll try not to,” said Quintus, smiling. “But if they want to serve with the Eagles, they need to get used to the idea of facing a blade.” He walked towards the recruits. “Now who is willing to have his courage tested?” he said, and slowly drew his sword from the scabbard. “All you have to do is take me on in a fight…”
He stood there with his feet apart, splendid in his armour and helmet, sword held by his side. Lucius could see the other recruits nervously glancing at each other, all wondering if anyone would accept the challenge. But he realized the Optio was right – there was no point in even thinking about being a soldier unless you could overcome your fears. He felt in his pocket for his bulla, and suddenly it was as if Jupiter was there with him, filling his heart with courage, telling him to speak up.
“I’ll do it,” Lucius said, stepping forward.
“Ah, so one of you has some guts,” said Quintus. “Titus, give him your sword.”
Titus came over to Lucius and drew his sword, offering it to him by the hilt. Lucius took it, the ivory handle smooth in his grasp, the balance feeling just right.
“Have you used a sword before?” Titus asked him, and Lucius nodded, although he felt he should have added only a few times and never in a fight. “Good,” murmured Titus. “He’ll probably come at you hard to start with, but don’t panic. Stay light on your feet, watch his eyes and not his blade, and always keep your guard up.”
The Optios and recruits formed a circle round Lucius and Quintus. Lucius looked up at the empty seats, remembering that day at the Amphitheatre in Rome and the flame-haired fighter. He had moved like a dancer, but he had been deadly too.
“Ready?” said Quintus. Lucius nodded. He spread his feet, crouched slightly and raised his sword. “So then,” Quintus went on. “Let the Gods guide our blades!”
He leapt forward, bringing his sword down on Lucius’s in stroke after clanging stroke. Lucius moved backwards, the yelling of his fellow recruits ringing in his ears. After a time Quintus paused, and Lucius got a good stroke in himself, making the Optio raise his own blade in defence. Lucius worried that he had just made him angry. But Quintus simply laughed, and gave him a nod of encouragement.
They carried on, Quintus mostly giving ground, soon turning the fight into a lesson for them all. Eventually Titus called a halt, and they both lowered their blades. Lucius bent over, gasping for breath, a stabbing sensation in his side so painful he wondered if Optio Quintus had cut him open after all. But it was just a stitch.
“So Quintus, aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life?” said Titus, smiling. “A few more minutes of that and you’d have been begging the boy for mercy.”
“Another joker!” snorted Quintus, shaking his head. “But I have to admit he did well. He might actually have the makings of a half-decent legionary.”
Lucius thought that was the best thing he had heard for a long time.
ELEVEN
THE SACRED OATH
TITUS SENT THE recruits off to get cleaned up while he and the other Optios made up their minds. The fort’s bath-house was by the western gate, and was a good size, with a steam room, warm and hot pools and a cold pool to finish in. Lucius took his time, enjoying the water, washing the sweat and sand from his skin. The rest of the recruits laughed and splashed each other, relieved the probatio was over.
“You did well to take on that Optio,” said the curly-haired recruit, the one Optio Quintus had shouted at. The young man was sitting beside Lucius in the hot pool. “Even the Gods might be scared of him. My name is Alexios, by the way.”
Lucius gave him his new name, discovering that it came ever more easily to his lips. They talked for a while, Alexios happy to tell Lucius about his family. His father was a trader from Rome, his mother the daughter of a merchant from North Africa who had settled in Britannia long ago. Alexios had four annoying younger sisters, had grown up in Londinium, and had always wanted to follow the Eagles.
Arwenna had told Lucius to keep his story simple and say he was an orphan with no family. Alexios accepted it without question. Being an orphan wasn’t unusual – parents sometimes died, leaving their children to be brought up by others. Yet Lucius couldn’t help thinking it was almost true. In the short time he had known them, Valerius and Arwenna had been more like parents to him than his own mother.
Eventually the recruits got dressed again and were summoned to the Principia. The Optios were waiting for them in the courtyard, Titus holding a scroll in his hands.
Lucius and Alexios had stuck together and took their places in the front row.
“Your fates have been decided,” said Titus, unrolling the scroll, his voice ringing out loud and clear once more. “The following have passed the probatio…”
Suddenly Lucius felt a wave of panic. He had pushed his body to its limit, but what if that hadn’t been enough? What if he had failed to get into the Army? What then?
“I don’t know why you’re looking so worried,” Alexios whispered, nudging him. “Of course you’ve passed! I’m not really sure they’ll want me, though…”
In fact they had both passed. Titus read Lucius’s name first, Alexios’s soon after, then lots more. Three recruits were rejected and were immediately shown out of the Principia by one of the Optios, but most of those who had passed didn’t notice. They were too busy being pleased with themselves and congratulating each other. A few looked stunned, and were clearly wondering if they had done the right thing.
The rest of the day went quickly, almost in a blur, Lucius thought. The new recruits were taken to the stores block and issued with uniforms – red tunics, black leggings, socks, hobnailed boots, cloaks – and told to hand over their old clothes and sandals once they had changed. “You won’t be needing those any more,” said the Optio in charge of the stores. “The Army will be clothing you for the next twenty-five years.”
Then they were taken to a barrack block and shown where they would be sleeping for the next couple of nights, two long rooms lined with bunk beds. An Optio said they would now be called tiros until they had finished their training, and divided them into two equal groups. “These are your mess-mates, your contubernium,” he told each group. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so get used to it.”
Yet another Optio came to explain about their pay. Lucius hadn’t thought about that at all, and was impressed by the sum of money he would be paid three times a year – although the Optio also said the cost of their uniforms and equipment would be deducted from it. Some of the tiros in Lucius’s contubernium thought it was unfair, grumbling when the Optio had gone. But it seemed reasonable to Lucius.
Later, the tiros were summoned to the Principia and taken to the shrine in the heart of the building, where Titus and the other Optios were waiting. An altar stood on one side of the room, with three statues behind it – Jupiter, and the Goddesses Juno and Minerva. A second altar stood against another wall, and behind it were the statues of three Emperors – Augustus and Trajan, both made into Gods after they died, and Hadrian, of course. But it was the wall at the far end that drew Lucius’s gaze.
Lined up against it were five standards, with small panels attached to them bearing the names of cohorts and their battle honours. Carved golden Eagles gripped the top of each standard, their wings spread, beaks wide open as if they were screaming defiance. The sun was setting outside, and the Eagles glowed in the light streaming through the narrow windows high in the chamber’s western wall. Lucius thought they looked alive, and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Near the standards was yet another altar. Beside it stood a large, painted statue of Mars, Rome’s God of war, a powerful figure wearing an old-style Greek helmet with pointed cheek-pieces and a tall white crest. Mars held a round shield painted blood red in one hand and a spear in the other, and a raven sat on his shoulder. Three sticks of incense smouldered in a beautiful bronze bowl in front of the God, the perfumed smoke catching the golden light as it curled lazily up towards the roof-beams.
“We have gathered here so you may perform the most important task of the day,” said Optio Titus, his voice ringing out.“It is time for you to take the Sacred Oath.”
Lucius had known this was something he would have to do. Valerius had explained that all soldiers swore a solemn oath of service to the Emperor and to Rome. Now Optio Titus stood in front of the standards and held a sword out before him, his right hand beneath the hilt, his left supporting the blade. Then one by one the tiros stepped up, putting their right hands on the blade, repeating the oath after Optio Titus.
“I swear here, before the Gods and my fellow soldiers, to serve the Emperor with all my heart,” said Lucius when it was his turn. “To obey his orders without question, fight his enemies, and give my life for Rome if I am called upon to do so.”
Lucius returned to his place. Alexios smiled, but Lucius was thinking about his dream, realizing he had answered Jupiter’s question. And there was no going back now – Valerius had said oath-breakers were always executed. Yet Lucius knew it wasn’t fear that would make him keep his oath. He might never be a man of power and influence like Gaius, but he would still make something of his life.
He looked at the Gods and Goddesses around him. Help me to be the best soldier in the whole Roman Army, he prayed, and I will offer fine sacrifices to you all.
They gave him no sign, but somehow he was sure he had been heard.
The tiros were given dinner in the barrack block that evening, and their introduction to Army cooking, as Titus said, was a thick lentil stew with plenty of bread. Titus then ordered them into their bunks straight after the meal, saying they had some hard days ahead. Lucius fell asleep as soon as he lay down, and it seemed only a few moments later that he was woken up, an Optio roughly shaking him by the shoulder.
“Out of your beds, lads!” Titus yelled from the door. “The sun will rise soon!”
It was like that for the next five days; up before dawn and over to the Amphitheatre for training. Optio Titus told them they needed to learn how to march, at least in a basic way. Before long they would be leaving for Eburacum, the great fort in the north, the journey a week’s march even for experienced soldiers. There they would be trained to be proper soldiers before they were assigned to their Legions.
On the sixth morning the tiros lined up in the Principia courtyard, all wearing the ankle-length, hooded winter cloaks they had been given as part of their kit. The weather was still cold, and the dark clouds over Londinium promised rain, so it looked like they would be needing them. They had packs slung over their shoulders as well, with food for the march: a half-loaf, dried meat, cheese.
“Time we got going,” said Optio Quintus, standing in front of them, also wearing a heavy cloak. He was to be their Optio on the march. “I’d like to make it as far as Verulamium before sunset. Right, by the left, quick march…”
Optio Titus raised a hand in salute as they moved off, leaving the courtyard and heading for the fort’s northern gate. The sentries there saluted too, but Lucius barely noticed, his eyes fixed on the great road that stretched far ahead, an enormous line of grey stone cutting through the flat countryside beyond the city. Lucius turned to Alexios and the two friends grinned at each other.
It all felt good – the cold, fresh air stinging their lungs, the regular thumping of their boots on the road, the fellowship of the recruits moving as one unit…
Lucius was still smiling later, even after hours of hard marching. Then he saw a group of mounted men riding down the road towards him and the other tiros.
He drew his breath in sharply – the man on the leading horse was Sicarius.
TWELVE
LIKE A GHOST
IT WAS DEFINITELY him. He was riding a fine black stallion, and his companions rode good horses too. They had swords in scabbards on their belts, and the horses were trotting, their hooves striking the road with a clatter. Lucius’s chest tightened and his feet lost the marching rhythm. Valerius had defeated Sicarius, but Valerius wasn’t here – and anyway, Sicarius could ruin everything just by revealing Lucius’s true identity.
The tiro behind Lucius bumped into his back, almost knocking him off balance. Alexios reached out and steadied him, and Lucius quickly got into step again.
“Are you all right, Didius?” said Alexios, giving him a concerned look.
“I’m fine,” Lucius snapped, his eyes fixed on the men riding towards them.
At least they were now marching through a small wood, where oak, ash and birch trees rose high on either side of the road. Thick, dark clouds covered the sun, and even though it was the middle of the day, the light was gloomy and fitful. Lucius was on the far side of the column, away from the riders, Alexios between him and them.
Lucius quickly raised the hood of his cloak, pulling it right over his head so it shadowed his face. Sicarius was close now – Lucius could feel the malign presence of his enemy as if somehow his senses had been sharpened, and he had to fight the urge to look up, to find out whether Sicarius had seen him too. He stared down at his boots striking the road, and tried to let the rhythm of the march swallow him up.
Then it was over. Sicarius and his men rode past, down the road, and were gone, the sound of hooves fading into the distance. Lucius hadn’t realized till then that he had been holding his breath, and he let it out. The tiros were still marching along, Optio Quintus striding in front, and Lucius didn’t stumble again or break step with the others, even though his mind was buzzing with panic.
